My Son Handed Them to
Me
M. Stanley Bubien
"I should have become a priest."
I used to say that---the only truly meaningful words in
my life---until the night my son stopped me. Funny
how such powerful things could so abruptly end.
Funny, too, how they could so abruptly begin.
I still recall Father Parker walking me from his evening
study. "You are a faithful young Catholic, Jonathan,"
he had told me.
I saw my parents' car ahead, passenger window
down, my mother sitting in the driver's seat, her upper
body partially obscured by the auto's roof.
"You understand the Bible well," the Father said,
shaking my hand goodbye and opening the door for
me.
"Father Parker," my mother called.
He smiled and stuck his head inside.
"I know what you're doing, preening my son for the
priesthood," my mother stated. "But you can be sure
that Jonathan is not becoming a priest. He will be a
doctor."
My mother said no more, leaving Father Parker
standing stiffly upon the sidewalk like my broken
dreams, staring openmouthed and silent---a mirrorimage to myself.
From then on, I had those words---"I should have
become a priest"---I said them, and I meant them. I
repeated them and they gained power. Yet, even after
a lifetime, my son somehow found a way to destroy
them.
We had just finished Thanksgiving dinner, and his
wife excused herself to use the powder room. Stuffed,
I leaned back while my son considered his goblet of
apple cider.
"Dad," he began without raising his eyes. "Mom told
me something the other day. She said you were going
to be a priest."
My dinner suddenly seemed much heavier. When he
finally glanced up, I nodded yes.
"She said it was a dream of yours. Did you ever regret
it? Not becoming a priest?"
My eyes glazed over. Did I regret it? I missed seeing
him grow up---not because I was too busy with my
medical career, but because I was abusing cocaine,
heroine, and various prescription drugs. That cost me
my marriage, my practice, and sent me into a seven
year roller coaster ride of on again, off again usage.
His question was almost laughable.
"Okay, I'm not stupid," he replied to my silence. "I
know you started the drugs in Medical School, and if
you had gone to seminary instead, you probably
would've come out clean." He flicked his finger,
tinging the crystal. "Still, I wanted to tell you
something." He indicated the turkey carcass, the halfeaten potatoes, the sea of gravy and spilt stuffing. "I
wanted to say," he continued, "thanks."
"For what?" I replied with a shake.
"For not becoming a priest. If you had, I never
would've been born. And, well, I wanted to thank you
for that. For my life."
He raised his glass in salute.
In all these years, I could not fathom any words more
powerful than the ones I'd been speaking. Yet so
abruptly, my son handed them to me.
Hesitantly, I lifted my crystal of cider, paused, and,
ever so lightly, clinked it against his.